3 Months old

MushyFace and I went to LA and celebrated the warm weather and three months of SquishyBabygirliness on this planet.

I was totally afraid of the plane ride going there. Totally. Somehow, when I go in public and the baby screams like a banshee but I'm with Dave, I feel more secure. Like there is at least one person in the establishment not certain that I am attempting tricky baby torture maneuvers inside the blankets of a screaming lass. But alas. Dave was staying here and I was going all alone. Very scary.

While we waited in the lounge next to an older lady, she began loving Annalise and asking all about her. Before I knew what was happening she stuck her finger in the baby's fist. Annalise held on tightly. I watched very grumpily. I have no interest in diseases acquired from YuckyStrangerGerms thank you very much. As I looked on cluelessly, she began cooing and lovingly pulled Annalise's fist to her face and rubbed it on the top of her nose. SHE WIPED HER NOSE WITH MY BABY. There should be laws against this sort of thing.

When we got on the plane we were in the last row right by the bathroom which would have been good so I could stand up and bounce the Boo if she screamed except I never realized before how every other single person in an airplane uses the bathroom once for luck and twice for good measure. It was ridiculous. The bathroom was never empty. One lady was standing next to me in front of the door for a long time at one point before I finally glanced up to see why she wasn't going in. The door had a tiny square on it with the word PUSH. The lady was patiently pushing the "button" over and over, not understanding why it wouldn't open.

"I think you have to push the actual door," I told her.

"Oh!" she said and finally went in.

Then came the flight. I know you're going to think I'm lying. Because I kind of think I'm lying. How could what is coming next not be lying? But it's the truth: THE BABY WAS AN ANGEL. A benevolent God was in the mood for giving me a break. My child, the screaming, shrieking, freaking-out-all-over child whom I love so dearly, who has barely been known to pass five minutes of her life without hollering fiercely, fell asleep a few moments before we started taxiing and did not wake up until the descent. At which time she smiled winningly at all around her and waved her armed cutely and cooed charmingly and that was that. Un. Be. Lievable.

50 people approached me and commented on what a good calm baby she was and how impressed they were. Nodding in wonder, I had to agree. She was perfect. She proceeded to forget how to cry for 5 of the 7 days we were there, and to tell the truth, I'm nearly glad she did lose her mind entirely on two of those days, or my mother would have had to wonder if I was making the whole thing up.

To be fair, she tortured me the night before we left by not sleeping longer than an hour at a time, so I figured she was just really tired on the plane. Which was a perfectly acceptable (and preferable) trade-off. So I was equally afraid of the flight home. I begged for errant prayers wherever I thought I could get them. Then we went to the airport. And on the plane. AND THE BABY WAS PERFECT. She slept, she woke, she ate, she played. AND SHE WAS HAPPY. The whole time. Even when the lady next to me took her StrangerGerm-infested hands and touched her cheeks 14,ooo times. (Insert cut and pasted previous comment about laws against this sort of thing.) It's like the air is a no-cry zone for her.

Dave will not be happy to hear this. But we're officially buying a plane and moving onto it. At least he won't have any more lawns to mow.





Annalise and Grandpa Raychek